Free Thunder Running by Rebecca Crowley

the checkout line about what he could buy with his food stamps, usually ending in a drunken and utterly fictional claim that he was a full-blooded Native American raising a child on his own and he was going to call the American Civil Liberties Union the instant he got home to tell them about the racism and poor customer service he’d encountered.
    More often than not she was left to shove their meager groceries into a bag while her father was escorted off the property by a manager. Even though the supermarket nearest her Kansas City apartment was miles away from those years-ago stores in Arkansas, she could never shake the feeling that they might know her, that news of America’s worst customer and his guilty-by-association daughter had spread through underground checkout teller channels and that when she passed over her debit card to pay for her items it would be refused and she’d be barred from the store for life.
    â€œRidiculous,” she muttered under her breath, squaring her shoulders and striding purposefully toward the commissary checkout. That was then and this was now. She had her groceries, she had plenty of money to pay for them, and she had Chance’s advice on tipping the baggers. She was ready. Everything would be fine.
    She unloaded her basketful of items onto the conveyer belt, greeting the bored-looking cashier with a big smile.
    After a moment of expectant silence and a stifled yawn the woman asked, “ID please?”
    â€œOh, right.” Tara slung her oversized purse on the conveyer belt, rummaging in its depths as her cheeks heated. Of course she needed her ID. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
    â€œHold on, I think it’s just—it was in this pocket. It must’ve fallen out. Sorry, give me a second.” Where had the damn thing gone? She began emptying the contents of her purse item by item, lining them up in an embarrassing potpourri of unneeded crap. Hair ties, mostly empty tubes of lip gloss, gas receipts from three years ago, but no ID card.
    She froze, the humiliation becoming too much to bear. She’d had her ID to get through the post gate—was it in the car? On the ground in the parking lot? Had she lost it? What the hell was she supposed to do now?
    â€œI’m so sorry, I think I must’ve left in the car. Do you mind if I run out real quick and check?”
    By this point a middle-aged man carrying most of his weight in his belly had taken an interest. His cheap tie suggested he was a manager, and his narrowed eyes broadcast how seriously he took that responsibility. Her heart started to pound in earnest.
    â€œWho’s your sponsor, ma’am?”
    â€œMy husband. Sergeant Chance McKinley.”
    â€œWhich unit?”
    Her mind drew a panicked blank. C’mon, Tara, you know this . Wait, is a company the same as a unit?
    â€œAlpha.”
    The cashier crossed her arms as the manager raised a disapproving brow. “Alpha Company’s deployed to Afghanistan, ma’am.”
    â€œRight, I knew that, I mean he was in Echo, but he just moved to Alpha, so I wasn’t sure what you—”
    â€œWill you step aside, please?”
    Tara realized with abject horror that a line of shoppers had formed behind her, all wearing keen gazes underlined by a hint of annoyance. She scooped everything back into her purse, and the implausibly loud sound of her hairbrush missing its target and hitting the linoleum floor was only slightly less mortifying than her fumbling attempt to kneel down and retrieve it, her hand unsteady, her knees shaking.
    She joined the manager at the front of the store, forcing herself to look away from the depressing sight of the cashier ruthlessly sweeping her unclaimed groceries back into a basket and shoving it onto the floor.
    â€œYou know the commissary is only open to military members and dependents,” he scolded. “The tax breaks offered here are—”
    â€œI swear, my husband is a soldier